


The Pasta Misunderstanding

by Self-Inflicted Insanity (Marvelite5Ever)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Austria just wants to play the piano, Gen, Germany cooked potatoes and sausages, Germany runs after him, Hungary has a frying pan, Italy runs away, Italy wants pasta, Lichtenstein keeps Switzerland from killing them, Prussia just wants to bother Austria, Sugar-high crack!, Switzerland shoots at them, This is utter ridiculousness, crack!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvelite5Ever/pseuds/Self-Inflicted%20Insanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Italy really, really wants pasta. </p><p>Germany thinks that Italy eats far too much pasta. </p><p>Their neighbors are annoyed by the subsequent development.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pasta Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

> Eating cupcakes at midnight is a terrible, terrible idea. Because then I end up dancing around writing a crack!fic and not getting to bed till four in the morning. 
> 
> My brain and I have decided that we hate each other.

* * *

There was a shout of “PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” and Switzerland looked out the window of his house to see Italy running down the road crying, Germany right behind him with an expression that, even at the (admittedly quickly-closing) distance and in the dark of late evening, Switzerland could still tell was murderous. Red lines of anger were practically radiating from the German's face. 

“DAMMIT, ITALY!” Germany roared, charging after the desperately fleeing Italian. “GET BACK HERE!”

“BUT PASTAAAAAAAAA!” Italy cried, running like his very life and blood depended on it.

“I SWEAR YOU ARE SOLELY MOTIVATED BY FOOD!” Germany roared furiously. “THIS IS RIDICULOUS COME BACK!” 

“PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Italy cried as he ran. 

“DAMMIT, ITALY!” Germany roared as he ran after him. 

By this time, Switzerland had already grabbed his shot gun and was standing outside his front door, firing shots at them. “GET OUT OF MY COUNTRY,” he shouted at them. 

“PASTAAAAAAA—AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” Italy cried in fear, clamping his arms over his head as he kept running and crying, pleading pathetically (but also very loudly): “DON'T SHOOT ME, VEEEEEEE!” 

“DAMMIT SWITZERLAND!” Germany roared as he dodged the bullets easily. “STAY OUT OF THIS!”

“YOU STAY OUT OF MY COUNTRY,” Switzerland yelled at them, sending more potshots their way—not to wound them (because then they'd be stuck in his country and he'd have to deal with them!) but to convince them to GET THE HELL OUT OF HIS COUNTRY. 

“PASTAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” Italy cried, tears pouring down his face so thickly it was a miracle he could keep running as fast as he was without tripping. 

“IS THAT THE ONLY WORD YOU KNOW?!” Germany roared at the Italian, completely unphazed by the bullets. “STOP THIS AT ONCE!” 

“GET OUT,” Switzerland yelled, firing at them again. 

“PASTAAAAAAAAHHH!” Italy somehow managed to whimper at the top of his lungs. 

“DAMMIT SWITZERLAND!” Germany roared, not even turning his head to look at the Swiss. “STOP SHOOTING AT US IT'S NOT HELPING THE SITUATION!” 

Switzerland fired at them again. “GET. OUT.” 

“WE'RE GETTING, WE'RE GETTING!” Italy cried in terror. “WE'RE GETTING PASTA!”

“DAMMIT, ITALY!” Germany roared at him. “WE ARE NOT GETTING PASTA! YOU ARE ENTIRELY TOO OBSESSED WITH PASTA AND IT'S TIME YOU ATE REAL FOOD! LIKE POTATOES AND SAUSAGES!” 

“NOOOOOO!” Italy cried. “WANT TOMATOES AND PASTAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“NO MORE PASTA, ITALY!” Germany roared. 

“PIZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Italy cried desperately. 

“AND NO PIZZA!” Germany added as the two of them disappeared around the bend.

“What was that, big brother?” Lichtenstein asked as she stepped into the doorway, peering at her older brother concernedly. 

Switzerland rested his shotgun against his shoulder, glaring after the two nations. “Two idiots causing a ruckus.” 

“I heard a gun go off,” Lichtenstein said with wide eyes, reaching out to place a tentative hand on her brother's arm. “Are you okay? Was there fighting?” 

“I fired the gun,” Switzerland said stiffly, looking down at her. “They were on my property and I don't take well to trespassers.” At Lichtenstein's alarmed expression he quickly added, “I didn't hit them, though. They were just warning shots.” 

“Why was everyone screaming?” Lichtenstein asked. 

“To be heard,” Switzerland answered. 

“Oh,” Lichtenstein said, considering this. 

Switzerland sighed. “Come now,” he said, giving her a light nudge to step back inside the house. “It's time for bed.” 

“PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” came Italy's voice as he appeared running down a different road that lay adjacent to the previous one they'd been running down. 

“ITALY STOP THIS AT ONCE!” Germany roared, still trying to chasing after the damn Italian. “IT'S NOT FUNNY ANY MORE! IT WAS NEVER FUNNY IN THE FIRST PLACE!” 

“DAMMIT I AM GOING TO KILL THOSE TWO,” Switzerland shouted, his gun already back into shooting position, finger about to press the trigger. 

Lichtenstein stopped him with a hard tug to his sleeve. “Are you really going to kill them, brother?” she asked, eyes wide and starting to brim with tears. 

Switzerland sighed, lowering the gun. “No. But they'll WISH I did.” His glare was dark as he made to follow after them. 

“Oh,” Lichtenstein said, craning her neck to stare after the two crazies. “But haven't they just crossed over into Austria?”

Switzerland's head whirled around. “DAMMIT YOU'RE RIGHT,” he realized.

* * *

* * *

Austria was playing his piano, the moonlight streaming through the open window and splashing silently across the alabaster and ebony keys, his playing accompanied by a chorus of crickets. 

And then a scream tore through the air: “PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” and shattered the beautiful lilt of the piano into sharp and fragmented shards as Austria jumped in surprise and slammed his hands down on the keys. 

Outside his window, Austria whirled on his seat to see Germany chasing Italy through the garden and belowing “ITALY!!!” at the top of his lungs. 

Austria gave a pained sigh and lay his head down on the piano keys, mourning the death of the music of the night. 

“Should I go get rid of them?” Hungary offered, walking into the doorway to the music room with a frying pan in hand. 

“No,” Austria sighed, straightening and trying to collect his composure. His glasses were askew and he carefully repositioned them on his nose. “Let's just pretend they're not here. Then we won't have to make Italy any pasta.”

“PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” came Italy's wailing voice, rending the air and silencing the crickets. 

“ITALY THIS IS RIDICULOUS!” came Germany's roaring bellow, smashing the calm atmosphere of the night into a million little pieces, and then stomping them underfoot for good measure. “YOU CAN SURELY GO ONE DAY WITHOUT EATING ANY PASTA! AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING FOR PASTA IN AUSTRIA AND HUNGARY?!” 

“PASTAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Italy cried, wailing like lightning. 

“IIIIIIITAAAAAAAAAAAAALYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!” Germany roared, thundering like—well, like thunder, frankly. 

And then, to add to the storm of noise came the Prussia's harsh voice, howling and cackling like wind: “Whoa! So, I totally just came here to bother Austria, but it looks like you're already being bothered!” The white-haired Prussian strode into the room and sat on the piano keys, creating a dreadful tree-breaking rainfall of sound, harshened by his hissing “Kesese!”

“Go away,” Austria said as primly as possible, trying to push the Prussian off his beloved piano. “And get off my baby!”

“So what's going on, huh?” Prussia said instead, ignoring Austria's distress (or, rather, delighting in Austria's distress) and grinning like the Chesire Cat moon that hovered in the blackness outside the window. He kicked his feet onto the Austrian's lap. “My little bro try to take away the Italian's pasta again?” 

Prussia shook his head. “Tsk, tsk. When will he _ever_ learn. Trying to part an Italian from his pasta and tomatoes is like trying to part a German from his beer and sausage. Impossible—and, frankly, moronic.” 

“PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Italy cried, running by the window the opposite direction. 

“ITALY!” Germany roared, still chasing after him. “STOP THIS RUNNING! WE RAN OUT OF PASTA AT MY HOUSE BUT YOU COULD HAVE JUST GONE TO THE MARKET TO GET MORE! WHY ARE YOU STILL RUNNING?!” 

Austria, Hungary, and Prussia watched as Italy stopped running so abruptly that Germany ran into him, knocking them both to the ground. 

Italy sat up, his curl sticking out from his head. “You aren't taking away my pasta?” he asked. 

Germany stood up, scowling and straightening out his clothes. “No, I'm not taking away your pasta!” he snapped. “I cooked potatoes and sausage because that's all I had!” 

Austria's face hit the keys. “Idiots,” he muttered sourly. 

“Kesese!” Prussia laughed, slapping his thigh completely unnecessarily. “Misunderstandings are hilarious! And I _knew_ my little bro was too awesome to try to take away an Italian's pasta!” 

Austria groaned again as outside Italy jumped up into the air, shouting ecstatically: “YAY! GERMANY ISN'T TAKING AWAY ITALY'S PASTA!” He threw himself at the German, hugging him tightly. “THANK YOU GERMANY FOR NOT TAKING AWAY ITALY'S PASTA!” 

“Nnnf,” Germany grunted, sighing in exasperation as the Italian clung to him. “You do realize how far we are from my house now, right?!” he demanded. 

“I am so hungry, ve!” Italy whined. 

“Then maybe you shouldn't have run off!” Germany berated him, glancing over at the house and the open window. “And to Austria, no less!” 

“Maybe Austria has pasta!” Italy said hopefully, brightening and letting go of the German, only to grab his hand and start dragging him towards the house. “Let's go see, ve!”

Austria's head had raised from the piano to watch the scene out the window, but now his forehead hit the keys again. “Fuck.” 

“Kesese!” Prussia laughed, leaping off the piano and patting Austria on the back, still grinning in evil, evil glee. “It shouldn't be too bad! With Italy's face stuffed with pasta, you might even be able to play your beloved piano!”

“Hungary?” Austria said, lifting his head to look at her imploringly. “Can you get rid of them all now? Please?”

“I'll start boiling the water for the pasta,” Hungary said brightly, turning and exiting the room in a swirl of skirts and long brown hair. 

Austria groaned, his face slamming against the keys again. “Fuck. My. Life.” 

“Kesese!” Prussia laughed, giving the Austrian another hard slap on the back. “I'll leave you too it, then!” The Prussian started sauntering away towards the door, waving his fingers and calling smugly over his shoulder: “Have fun playing host to West and the crazy Italian!”

“Hate. You,” Austria muttered, face still pressed against the cool, smooth surface of the piano keys. 

“The feeling's mutual, believe me!” Prussia assured him with a toothy smirk. “Ahh, the sweet sight of your suffering…” 

“PASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” came Italy's delighted cry, from inside the house. 

“And that's my cue to leave!” Prussia declared, giving a salute and starting to walk out. “Viel Glück!”

But suddenly Germany was standing like a mountain in the doorway. 

“Not so fast, brother,” he grunted, grabbing Prussia's collar. 

“Aww, West!” Prussia whined, struggling fruitlessly to squirm away. “I didn't do anything, I swear!”

“You're having dinner with us,” Germany said, his tone firm and leaving no space for argument as he dragged Prussia out of the room. “If I'm to endure this torture, you will, too.”

“But West!” Prussia whined, still squirming in vain. 

“Nein,” Germany intoned, still dragging him towards the dining room. 

“Weeeeest!” Prussia whined. 

“Nein, East,” Germany intoned. 

Prussia huffed and crossed his arms, refusing to move his feet and letting his brother drag him along—which Germany did without the slightest bit of effort. “You are so totally NOT awesome!” 

As soon as the storm was confined to a distant room, Austria took a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, before setting his long fingers back on the ebony and alabaster keys of his beloved piano and beginning, once more, to play the music of the night. 

Slowly the crickets gathered their courage and began once more to chirp along.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you at least found some amount of amusement in the utter ridiculousness of this.


End file.
